What you're about to hear is based on actual events.

Listener discretion is advised.

He is trapped.

A transparent dome has somehow appeared from the sky and sealed him tight within.

A cup he soon realizes.

The occasional gigantic eyeball looms beyond the glass and blinked at him.

Tremendous words are spoken, asking something or another that he has given up on trying

to answer.

Mostly he waits, panicked.

A part of him knows what is next.

A paper towel will be pushed beneath his prison.

Then he will rise, lifted by giant human hands, unceremoniously released into a toilet,

or perhaps a pot of boiling water.

He is dreaming.

He knows this.

Somewhere, Pavel Tuklin is fast asleep.

Be laying in a field with his fingers inserted in a dead woman.

The panic subsides and is replaced with anger.

The scorpion looks down at his eight legs, pears back at his venomous tail and hisses.

The cell is cold and quiet.

Like many things held in hand by the Soviets, it is both ruinously old and terribly antiseptic.

Brick rubbed to a dull sheen with bleach and a steel brush.

...